


Once More in the Shadows

by bluedandelions



Series: Of The Shadows [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Non-human, F/M, Genderswap
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-09
Updated: 2014-09-30
Packaged: 2017-11-18 07:23:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/558364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluedandelions/pseuds/bluedandelions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock often wondered if his flatmate was as simple as she seemed, despite the evidence to the contrary.<br/>Then one day it was proved without any doubt that she was indeed anything but simple.<br/>She was quite simply, extraordinary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mistakes

**Author's Note:**

> An Alternate Universe, with a female John. Who is not quite what she seems, even when everything about her points to her being ordinary. And because I think John as a female would still kick ass. 
> 
>  
> 
> The story is not britpicked or betaed.
> 
> Sherlock does not belong to me ( obviously).

The feeling that she was being followed weighed at the pit of her stomach, gnawing away. Though she walked as she normally would, she took chances to casually see if she really was, turning her head both ways while crossing, glancing at display windows to see if anyone was behind her, while checking the time. She didn't spot anyone, but that didn't exactly mean no one was following her. So she took the longer route, stopped at display windows as though the admiring the wares, but the feeling didn't go away. Finally coming to a decision, she pulled out her phone, then typing the text she sent it.  

Immediately, it pinged. _No. I'm not certain why you think that. MH_  

So it wasn't Mycroft then.The feeling in her stomach became heavier. Not the best of times for this to be happening. Really. 

Her phone pinged again. _Is there something troubling you, Dr. Watson? MH_  

Frustration mounting, she ignored the text, walking past the display she'd stopped next to, her leg hurting ever so slightly, her shoulder throbbing in tandem. The nausea grew stronger, until she had to breathe through her mouth to control it, the usual smells of London not helping her the least bit. Just as she stumbled due to the pain in her leg, a bullet thudded above her head in the brick wall. Instincts screaming, she ducked behind the wall of the nearest alley throwing her shields up. Steadying her breathing through the pain, she pulled out her phone and texted him while keeping her nose and ears alert for more trouble. Pocketing her phone, she peered out from beside the wall, locating the bullet, judging the angle it hit, then decided on the site it arrived from, the building opposite with its shuttered windows providing excellent place for sniping. Seeing movements in one of windows, she focused her senses there.  

A torrent of malicious Intent hit her, her nausea grew stronger. _That's the one_. Taking out her gun, she flicked off the safety. Centering herself, she took aim, focusing she added her Intent to the bullet and fired. It hit its target with a quiet whump. Lowering her gun, she focused on the whole building to see if there were more, the simultaneous Intents of four …no five hit her. Blocking them subtly, she took aim again, focusing her Intent on the bullet and its target, she fired again. This time she heard multiple whumps, quickly counting, she heard four. Checking again, she found herself blocked. Focusing further got her no where along with a quiet throb in her head, they had evacuated the spot. Breathing deeply, she got out of her focus. Choosing to focus on the cameras, she edited the happening of the past two minutes. Shaking off her shields, she walked out of the alley and continued home, keeping her senses focused around her. This was really not the time for this to be happening. As she walked, her leg hurt worse than it had in a while. 

Twenty minutes later she entered Baker Street, smoothing out her features, wearing her normal placid expression, she went up the stairs to see Sherlock sprawled across the sofa in his praying-but-not thinking pose, with two nicotine patches on his arm. She saw his eyes flicker towards her the moment she entered before darting away. So he was ignoring her then. Too bad for him that she wasn't in a mood to indulge him. She dumped the groceries on the kitchen counter that was cleaner and clearer than the rest, then went to the bathroom to have a shower. All the way through, she was aware of his eyes following her.  

Under the tumult of the cold water, she mouthed a prayer for cleansing her self, her _saiwala_. Through her closed eyes she saw the black detritus of the foreign Intent that was stuck to her fall away leaving only the normal hues of her self, the blues, greens, browns and the reds of her life that seen together wove the story of her life. The soldier, the doctor, the sister, the healer, the friend, the hunter.  

Slowly opening her eyes, she felt her senses return to normal, the sharp focus of the world around her returned, the clear rhythm of the world pulsed in her ears again and overlying them all was the Pulse of Sherlock. His was so beautiful, the quick changes in his rhythms, the never ending melody that changed and changed; never stopping, never ending, it was hypnotizing, compelling, and more than anything addicting. 

His Pulse cleared her head of all melancholy, all the underlying tension melted away until she could feel, hear and sense the pulse of the world. So she didn't feel crippled by her wounds, so she felt whole again. With this she centered and calmed herself as she dressed. 

Leaving the bathroom with her shower damp hair lying spread across her shoulders dripping water down her back, she made her way to the kitchen. There she sorted out the groceries, and put on the kettle for tea. As usual she followed the ritual of blessing the tea, the _blodisoian_ , to calm, to strengthen, and she poured the water and seeped the tea and added the sugar and milk; she settled into her own skin, as she'd known she would. 

By now she could sense the Pulse of Sherlock had calmed from the jangling of his sulk to the melodies of his thoughts. So probably an experiment would be conducted some time soon, more likely on her. Taking the cups of tea, she placed one on the table near him and settled with her cup and journal in her armchair, waiting for him to start. The Pulse in the flat was humming with his anticipation, which in turn made her twitchy. So she calmly sat about drinking her tea and trying to read her journal.  

With an explosive Pulse, he leapt off the couch, plucked his cup of tea, as he stepped over the table to come and crouch in front of her, balancing on the balls of his feet, with his hands cradling his cup in front of his mouth. Putting down her journal on her lap, she stared into his intense eyes which flickered all over her face, the colour of them shifting infinitesimally. Taking another sip contemplatively, she waited for him to come to some conclusion in his head, to start asking her what was bothering him. Just then she felt the change in the Pulse of the flat, heard the dull bass of Mycroft Holmes, before she heard the door opening downstairs along with the thumps of his footsteps on the stairs, with the simultaneous thump of his ever present umbrella that was never quite what it seemed. From the flicker of his eyes, Sherlock had heard him too, so he rose fluidly and sat on his armchair with a thump. Together they turned to look at the door as he entered. At meeting their expectant gazes, Mycroft just stood there a moment before entering the room. He was carrying a folder, quite thick one at that. 

"Ah, Mycroft what brings you here?" the acidic undertones not lost on anyone in the room. 

"Hello to you too, Sherlock, Dr.Watson." nodding at them both.

Sherlock scoffed sipping his tea, but she nodded her hello to him. After waiting a moment, when Sherlock refused to speak, Mycroft sighed.

Pursing his lips, Mycroft looked at them, leaning on his umbrella, "There's a situation where in I require your expertise, Sherlock." 

"Not interested." his voice flat.

"This might interest you if you just heard the details." the exasperation in his tone was clear. 

"Dull." 

"Really, Sherlock, one would think that five deaths in a closed room without any signs of struggle would warrant your interest." 

"What? Details, out with it." impatience was getting the better of him. 

"Five dead, but only two bullets were recovered from the scene, no signs of any ricochets. This happened two hours ago." 

"So, maybe something was missed, not surprising considering the general ignorance of the people you insist on hiring." 

"I had the place investigated. Extensively. And the area around it too, and still no sign of the bullets." 

"Why does this interest you, were they yours?" one eyebrow raised, mouth quirked in a smirk.

"No, but the place they were found was a secure building."

She knew that this had been sloppy of her, she should have cleaned up the place, but her state had reduced her to nothing but instincts and pain. And this was the result of her not thinking clearly. Mycroft Meddling Holmes setting Sherlock after her. She barely controlled the urge to sigh. As she waited for Sherlock to speak, she heard the change in the Pulse, felt a call to her from one of her own, almost tuning out of their conversation, the hum of their words providing a familiar background as she searched for the source.  

 _There_. The Pulse of the place synchronized with the hum of the shadow. She stabbed the Pulse with her _silba_ , her soul, expecting to pass through but instead tearing the Pulse. Surprised, she pulled back and saw that it was not her own, but one of her brethren. So she pulled, aware that Mycroft and Sherlock still spoke, at the presence until she saw the identity. Feeling rage color her, she sharpened until it formed a knife like edge, she stabbed the Pulse with her rage and focus. The Pulse scattered, leaving the underlying Pulse of the city intact. Satisfied she pulled back, just in time it seemed. For Mycroft and Sherlock were seated face to face, aggression in the lines of their body, the expressions on their faces. Seeing this she just felt tired, not rejuvenated as she did after a _hentan_ , a hunt.  

"So, Dr. Watson what's your opinion on this? Do you think this strange?" he was asking just to prove a point to Sherlock now.

The Pulse of the flat was charged now, with the residual surge of her _hentan_ and the charge from the brothers Holmes. "I don't know, it seems a bit strange, Mycroft. Maybe your people missed something?" her voice surprisingly placid, acting dumb in front of Mycroft Holmes had become the norm for her. 

His eyebrow rose condescendingly, "They were quite thorough, Dr.Watson. I'm _certain_ they didn't miss anything." 

And I'm certain you did, Mr.Holmes. 

Ignoring her after he perceived her to be of no help in persuading Sherlock, "There's one more thing, all deaths according to the initial reports, were not caused by bullets but likely caused by something sharp like metal shards or shrapnel. Without any entry wounds on any of the bodies." 

Hearing this, Sherlock perked up, interest coloring his eyes for a telling moment before he blanked it. But Mycroft caught it and that meant he won this, "So will you take it?"

With a telling sigh, he murmured reluctantly,"Leave the file." 

"Very well, Sherlock. But let me know what you find out. After all, the legwork is all so very ... tedious." with a nod at them both, he turned and left.

As he left, the dull bass of Mycroft Holmes faded until it was gone. Her shoulders relaxed minutely, and Sherlock lunged for the file, all thoughts of questioning her gone for now. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GLOSSARY:
> 
> Intent - the ability to focus and project one's will into one's action.
> 
> Pulse - the beat or the heartbeat of a person's aura that could be felt by those with the Sense.
> 
> Sense - An extra sense that allows one to hear, feel and touch the Pulse of those around them.
> 
> Saiwala (Pronounced Swah-lah) - the soul projection, that only one who can see it is themselves.
> 
> Silba (pronounced Seel-lb-ba) - the part of one's soul used to communicate with one's family and friends, where the more familiar one is, the more easier it is to pass through and speak
> 
> Blodisoian (pronounced Blo-dhi-sow-i-an) - a ritual blessing that is used to cleanse, fortify and provide clarity


	2. Questions Raised?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things go far more differently than Joyce expects, raising some cautious hope within her, along with mirroring dread. Also Sherlock is stumped, for once!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't own Sherlock!!
> 
> Also not brit-picked or beta-ed.
> 
> If anyone would like help beta read and brit-pick this story, I'd be really thankful and obliged.

As he perused the file, he held up his empty cup, demanding a refill. With a weary sigh she got up, taking his cup along with hers to the kitchen to pour the remaining tea into their cups. Silently she added more milk and sugar to his cup, knowing he wouldn't eat anything once the case got started. Placing it near him, she went upstairs with hers.

She knew she wasn't much help right now, and if he needed any he'd just call for her. Since her presence was moot, she just removed herself from his vicinity to prevent him paying any attention to her. As she climbed, her shoulder and leg started to flare up with a sharp pain, barely keeping the gasp of pain inside she squared her shoulders and walked up the remaining stairs without limping. Reaching her room, she walked to her bed and carefully lowered herself with a low groan.

Clutching her cup to her chest, she sat panting, sweat gathering over her brow with the effort it took to keep silent due to her pain. Gently placing her cup on the floor, she laid down slowly, with care for her hurting shoulder. Nudging at her door, she Pushed it close and flipped the lock. Peeling her jumper off, she prodded at her shoulder wound. It had started to bleed again, swarming with foreign Intent. The Intent that had caused her wound had flared again, when her reserves had again run lower than usual. Sitting up slowly with pain flaring up, she removed her white Oxford and discarded it on the floor, the red stain on it staring at the ceiling sullenly.

The slow burn of pain spread from the point of entry to her arm muscles reaching till the tips of her fingers, gasping out slowly she clenched her fist. Prodding with her other hand at the slowly reopening wound, she felt for the extent of spread. It had almost reached beyond the web of Intent she had weaved, through the small gap it had pushed through until her web barely contained any of the foreign Intent. With a weary sigh, she forced her Intent into grasping her broken web and tore it to shreds.

Taking the first aid kit from the dresser next to her bed, she removed a sterile gauze pad and pressed it against the wound to stem the bleeding. Gathering her dwindling energy, she Pulled the energy from her surroundings gently until they shored up the small reserves left within her, boosting her _saiwala_ , filling up the fading colours with their usual vibrancy. Now that her energy was higher, she let the Pull on the energy of her surroundings go gently, and gathering her own she laid it over her wound like net, filtering out as much of the foreign Intent as possible and willing her wound to heal faster. Feeling the net take place and catch, she let go of her Intent, lying down exhausted and out of breath.

As the Pulse of the flat faded the pain of her wounds, she realized Sherlock was planning on comiing up. She sat up carefully, gathering her stained shirt as she rose. Moving to her hamper she dumped the shirt in. She settled on her bed, breathing hard just as the knob of her door jangled.

"Joyce, why have you locked the door?", he was irritated, impatience Pulsing from his body in sharp waves, making her wince at its intensity.

She got up and checked under the gauze to see if the bleeding had stopped, it had slowed down, still bleeding sluggishly. Taking another gauze and some antiseptic cream, she applied it to her shoulder and taped it down tight and snug. Throwing the used gauze into the bin to be taken care of later. Then flexed her shoulder to check her range of movement. Deeming it satisfactory, she pulled another white shirt and shrugged it on.

"Joyce?", the knob jangled again, then he knocked, repeatedly," Joyce come on, I've got a lead, let's go. Stop wasting time and come on!" Done buttoning her shirt she got her jumper from the floor and pulled it on and had just replaced the kit back to its place when the door swung open to reveal the annoyed visage of one Sherlock Holmes. Obviously he had picked the lock, the impatient man.

"What were you doing, Joyce? Didn't you hear me, let's go!", taking her hand he pulled her downstairs where he grabbed her coat and tossed it to her, already wearing his own coat and scarf.

 

When they reached the crime scene, it wasn't where she'd expected it to be. Surprised, she'd drawn a breath through her teeth. Sherlock noticed but didn't comment on it, except to direct a speculative look at her as he entered, drawing his latex gloves on. She followed him in, the grimy place hiding wooden floors that creaked as they walked.  Reaching the first set of stairs where all the crime scene equipment was stashed where upon seeing them Lestrade gave her one of the crime scene coveralls being already dressed in his, so quickly pulling hers on she followed them up to the location of the bodies.

The room was airy, empty save the bodies and the equipment of the crime scene unit. It had four large windows letting the pale sunlight of the afternoon filter in through the murky glass. The bodies were lying in a haphazard manner one after the other. There were differences here between this place and her _hentan._  For one, this was the third floor, unlike her fourth floor shooting and the bodies here were different too. They weren't trained operatives like the ones who had come after her, but just for hire thugs with little to no practice from the looks of it, no calluses on the fingers, no indication of even wearing gloves. Street thugs then, their skin was slightly dehydrated, their colouring wan more than even death could have caused. Traces of street living was still visible on their bodies though it looked scrubbed away, likely for the job. And their Pulse had already faded almost completely. Weird, if they had died even six hours ago then their Pulse would have been faded less than it was now. Something was not right.

"Lestrade, how long ago were these bodies found?"

"Um, about three hours ago. Why is something wrong?", he asked glancing around the place, then glancing at Sherlock.

Without replying she moved to crouch next to the body closest to the door, he was lying sprawled sideways with his torso on the floor as though fallen in motion, the bullet lodged beneath him, so he was shot when lying down but he didn't seem to have any bruises to indicate having been pushed down or a fight. So searching for a puncture wound showed results, a puncture caused by a syringe at his carotid angled upwards. So drugged and then shot, must have been fast acting cause he showed no signs of struggle or asphyxiation. 

Leaving him to move to the next body, found him with puncture wound in the neck but no bullet wound, entry or exit, checking to see if he was killed because of something else showed nothing except slightly caved in chest cavity but no broken ribs. So she probed his fading Pulse, the feeling of shock and pain hit her but nothing else, so probably the dart at his neck was what killed him, but wait _there_ that was not poison, prodding further got her nowhere, but the feeling was familiar. Ignoring the nagging at the back of her head, she moved to the next body, a female this time, no puncture wound in the neck, but what looked like a self inflicted bullet wound on her chest, and she was a trained operative unlike the rest. Tracing the trajectory of the female from when she'd been standing got her to the next body, a black male, tall, very tall, with a bullet logded below his sternum. He also had a puncture wound but it was on his thigh. A different point of injection, was the reason his height or...

"So Joyce, what do you think?", Sherlock gestured to all the bodies, standing near one of the windows typing quickly on his phone.  

Looking over the last body, a white male with broad shoulders lying face down. Checking his neck revealed no puncture wound, but his arm revealed one, so that was in keeping with the rest of the bodies, and probing his Pulse also proved futile. He'd been the first to die. Standing and looking at the room from her spot showed nothing, so she probed at the Pulse of the building, all she got was a feeling of frustration, which she mostly recognised as the police. The underlying traces of Pulses were all but faded, concentrating on that gave her headache because of all the residual tension of the living people. Feeling her frustartion mounting, she took a deep breath to calm down. The past few seconds faded, reminding her that Sherlock was waiting and watching her. She could not afford to slip.

Drawing in a bracing breath, she looked around once more, bidding for more time, moving to another corner of the room to get a clearer read of the Pulse, she spoke "All the bodies have puncture wounds, either at their necks or thigh or arm. Possibly a tranquiliser, but more likely poison.There's no trace of vomit or smell of it, so they didn't choke, probably suffered from a cardiac arrest, so um...a paralytic. One near the door was shot from above, the lady probably shot herself, also hitting the black male. Rigor has not set in which means the bodies were here for less than twelve hours but looking at the state of the bodies I'd say they have been here for more than six hours."

As she spoke, she probed the building from near the window, the clearer space helping her concentrate on the fading Pulses. They were not right, something was off. She couldn't put her finger on it, but it was familiar. The nagging at the back of her head grew stronger, but nothing rang a bell. Turning to look at Sherlock, she moulded her face to look uncertain, " So what did I miss?"

Before he could speak, she thumbed her phone to ring out a text alert. Pulling out her phone, she looked at it. A moment later she looked up at Sherlock, a worried frown marring her face. "It's Harry. I've got to go."

Sherlock scoffed, "You don't need to really go, Joyce. She'll be fine as she was the last time this happened." 

Lestrade cleared his throat uncomfortably at his lack of tact. Looking at her apologetically, he opened his mouth to offer her some platitude. She raised her hand at him, gently shaking her head. Turning to look at Sherlock stonily, "She's my sister. Whatever happened the last time happened. It doesn't mean that I don't want to go or I'm not worried about her. It's not like you really need me here to solve this."

Huffing angrily, she turned and started walking out of the room, "With or without your permission I'm going, Sherlock. I'll text you as to when I'll be back home. Ta, Lestrade." With a last grim smile at Lestrade she left, ignoring the angry muttering and the weary sounding goodbye.

She'd just realized what was wrong with the Pulse of the place, and what was wrong was so colossaly wrong that she needed help to deal with it. Breathing heavily she walked out of the building, feeling panic creep up on her. Upon reaching the curb she raised her arm to flag down a taxi, while simultaneously pulling out her phone. Thumbing through her contacts to Harry's number, she called her.

Getting into the cab she gave the address of Harry's flat. When the person on the other end picked up. 

She spoke with a clipped tone not even waiting for her to greet her,"Harry, I'm coming over to your place, I'll talk to you there." 

Dropping the call before even hearing a response, she pocketed her phone. This time she really needed help, and only one person was alive who could provide it. She hoped to god it arrived before the help was too late.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary:
> 
> Push: a form of Intent where it is physically applied on the surroundings to make things go according to one's wishes.
> 
> Fading of Pulse: Since it is something that is emitted only by living, it fades from existence after roughly eight hours of death. It also depends upon the strength of the owner of the Pulse.
> 
> Note: Joyce's wound was caused by a bullet but the problem is that it was a bullet with an Intent wrapped around it, and when it hit her the Intent got transferred to her wound, taking up her reserves of Intent to keep it from spreading and causing a more problematic wound that would bleed until she bled to death. So keeping her Intent around is essential and energy consuming.


	3. Problems old and new

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Problems started appearing from her past, and her present was giving her unnecessary trouble. Sherlock should be more careful what he wished to find out about her, it might just bite him.

Things had started happening and they were spinning out of her control, so she needed the place where she could give into the demands of her _saiwala_. Harry's place was something of a sanctuary to her, not because of Harry but due to the location of the building. It was the sacred grounds of the _High Lords of the_ _Sceaduwe,_ lost to the sands of time and men. It had been found by accident when the cloying dirt, that had hidden the grounds, had been dug through to build the first of the rudimentary houses that humans had built so very long ago, and had been rebuilt and remade until it became the structure of today.

As always, one of _sceadu_ would remain there to keep watch over lands where eons ago the _Temples of the Origin_ had stood, these lands belonging to the most powerful of them all, because according to legends  _the Ancient One_ used to reside among her subjects, granting them wisdom and power.  _The Ancient One,_ the Goddess who watched over them would be there to guide her _neas sceadu_ , to help them in their times of need.

As she watched the buildings and people flick by, she remembered the times of peace, where her most troubling problems had been skinned knees and angry sisters. She could go on days without talking and still be able to cajole her sister into listening, forgiving her. Times of rituals and rites on the day of the Dark Moon, the treats prepared and offered, watching the flickering of flames as the night grew deeper and darker and colder. The soft popping and crackling noises of the wood, the rustling of leaves as the wind blew them gently away. Then she grew up and the war started, or more correctly the pause between wars had ended and she was called to join. Her Ability was suited to war, so she battled in the front lines, she gathered intelligence behind the lines and basically she went where they sent her.

The _Sceaduwe War_ was unlike the wars humans waged, we fought with swords and guns too, that is true, but that is just a facet and not the actual war. In reality power shifted between factions, based on their _Potere,_ on their Abilities, on their combined strengths and weaknesses. The factions supposedly fought for the favour of  _The Ancient One_ , though in the _Books of Old_ never is it mentioned that the Goddess wished for war and bloodshed. She was trapped by Her own rules of not favouring one faction over the other. Just when it seemed one faction was losing they joined with a smaller or lesser known faction to combat their losses. The power shifted between factions faster than it took for the underlings to understand who to trust and who to kill. This raked so many casualities that all the factions had agreed to a truce.

The war that she thought that had been paused for the rest of her lifespan, had just been declared as false. The war had started again and none of them were preapared for it. May the Goddess help them or all was forfeit.

     

Upon reaching the flat where Harry lived, she paid the cabbie and got out. Pulling out her phone as she walked, she shielded it from interference and snooping. The amount of surveillance she found was staggering, not even Sherlock had that much. So that meant either Mycroft liked her more, not likely or he still didn't trust her, another possibility was that she had done something recent to make him suspicious recently, the shoot out this morning popped into her head, before she brushed it aside. Reaching the entrance of the flat with its pretentiously wide glass and steel doors, she felt a headache start pounding behind her eyes from the effort. She sent a text to Harry to let her in. Hearing the buzz she walked in, mentally flipping Mycroft's CCTVs and paranoia for requiring this much effort. Bracing her shoulders, she strode in confidently, not betraying her pain or anguish. 

She had remembered. Things from the start of the war, from when she'd been too young to deal with it effectively, something that had to be blocked from her memories. The reason everything had felt off, the way things didn't tally, the nagging at the back of her head, the sense that the victims had been poisoned but not, the way their chest cavities had been compressed. She remembered seeing similar sights from a very long time ago, when the war was at its brutal best, the initial upswing of violence of a restarted war. The panic swelled larger in her, almost going out of control, before she reined it in. It was a familiar feeling, the vestiges of the past that haunted her. The feeling of being helpless, to do anything, of being powerless to stop it from happening. Her past had started to catch up with her and she was terrified of the possibilities and of things that could go so very terribly wrong.

Entering the lift she pressed the button for Harry's floor, breathing slow and deep, deliberately so. With a soft ding the doors of the lift opened, she walked to the door, finding it unlocked she entered and locked it behind her. Going through the living room into the kitchen, she found her sister, sitting slumped at the table, head in her hands, shoulders slumped wearily.

"Harry?", she spoke softly, knowing sometimes things were a little too overwhelming for her after a bad day at work or just in general. One of the reasons Harry turned to drink  to tune it out.

"Unghh…. Joyce, what is it? You sounded tense on the phone, is everything alright?", her voice sounded hoarse as though she had not spoken for days. Though that was not out of the realm of possibilities.

After getting a glass of water and placing it in front of Harry, she sat down at the table, opposite her sister. She stared at her, until Harry raised her head to look up. The similarities in their features always was something that she didn't understand and marvelled at. They had different fathers, yet they could pass off as twins. Shaking off pointlessly careening thoughts, she drew a deep breath and let it out quickly. Her familiar concerned features were a balm to her troubled mind, her steadily beating Pulse, comforting, reminding her of home and when things were better.

Taking strength from that, she quieted her mind, as much as she could under the circumstances, and told her. "I think that they are back," voice hushed, and shaking ever so slightly with bile rising up the back of her throat," I'm just coming from a crime scene, it was almost like watching the past come life."

 

 

Sherlock had watched Joyce rush out of the crime scene. She said she had to go to her sister, she was angry with him for not understanding her need to be with her sister who was ill. But some thing in that interaction, some nebulous bit nibbled at the back of his head as he catalogued and deduced the crime scene in front of him. 

The bodies were all there in front of him, their various causes of death laid and spelled out for anyone to see. But the discrepancies made them all the more interesting. He'd wait for the autopsy reports before he concluded anything though. It was pointless forming theories without all the relevant data. So for now he would focus on the problem that Joyce represented. 

Walking out of the building, he igonred the squaking of the idiots around him, and flagged himself a taxi. Seated inside now, and speeding towards St.Barts, he considered all things that stood out as wrong today. She had been late from shopping and had seemed tense and wound up, like she had an adrenaline rush. Then she had had a bath, which she rarely if ever did in the afternoon, then ignored him which she didn't do unless she was in a bad mood or needed to hide things from him. There had dust on the back of her coat and her hair when she'd come home, not the sort of thing one encountered at a store. But after her shower she'd calmed down enough that she wasn't tense or moody and had even made tea for him. She'd locked her door, even though she'd been dressed, and had held herself as though her shoulder hurt, it had been subtle but there.

Then the fact that she'd been surprised by the location of the crime scene had been curious, but not pressing so he'd ignored it thinking he could find it later, there had a case, an interesting one. But she'd spoiled it by rushing with a sarcastic deduction, and her blasted sister was in trouble so she ran off to go to her. But that was odd, she didn't get a call, she got a text. Harry usually called when in trouble and texted when drunk or something close enough.

So things didn't add up, and he couldn't think of what reason she had for hiding things from him, he'd find out sooner or later, so it was useless and Joyce knew that. Then there was the way Mycroft had treated her, as though she'd done something suprising or suspicioius recently, though to Mycroft both were synonmous. All the things about Joyce that didn't add up since the day they meet kept increasing without boring him, she was a puzzle that he was not tiring of even after so long. She was predictable about certain things, then she went and surprised him with things he thought were right by proving them wrong. She was a delightful puzzle and he would solve her. 

Reaching the lab in Barts, he took out all the samples he had collected, well filched from under the noses of the Met, but semantics and started testing them even as he mulled over Joyce. Seggregating the various samples according to the individuals he mused again over the frazzled expression she had as she came home from shopping. Then he found something so interesting and nigh impossible that all thoughts of Joyce and her puzzling behaviour was driven out of his head. This was a truly truly wonderful case. Oh what a marvelous day!!!!  

 

Harry had decided to call Dad, like that would help, she needed someone with better connections, with better and greater reach. So she decided to scry for the _Banriona Sceadu du Cruithen-tuath,_ knowing she could help.

She poured the purified and blessed water into the copper scrying bowl, going to aural center of the house, she drew the necessary wards and seals against spying, then layered them with seals for clarity, discerment and added the symbols for truth, distance and secrecy. Finishing the wards, she placed the scrying bowl in the middle and placed her hands on the surface of the water to coat her hands with the purified water. Lifting her hands out of the bowl, the water staying coated onto her hands, she drew the seals in front of her, the water shimmering and staying in air as she drew, chanting the _dhraíocht_. Finished, she lowered her hands, to see the ceiling of some room in the _Pálás da Cruithen-tuath._

A face appeared, that of a man, when he saw her, he disaapeared and immediately reappeared, " _Seansaighdiúir_ , it's been while. What's calls you here?"

"I need an audiance with _Banriona_ Thorea. It is a matter of urgent importance, Mr. Vansilini. She is available, yes?", she needed the queen to be there, for without her, she couldn't do as much as she wanted.

"On what matter would you speak to her? May I convey it or would you speak directly to her, _Seansaighdiúir_?", his reedy voice was as she remembered, he was a constant in her past and would soon become constant in her future.

"No, Mr.Vansilini, I must speak to the _Banriona_ myself. As soon as possible, it is very important." He looked like he would refuse to agree to her request, so she added," It is to do with  _them,_ they have come back."

On hearing this, his pale face paled further, making it look like waxy paper, "I shall call the Banriona immediately, you shall get an audience in ten minutes. Be here, _Seansaighdiúir._ " saying so he disappeared and the water became clear again. Cleaning up the seals and wards, she touched the water to cancel out the residual connection of _dhraíocht_. Taking the bowl and disposing of the water, she turned to look at Harry, still talking on the phone.  

Calling out, she said, "Harry, she has granted me an audience, I need the  _fánán_ ready. I've to be there in five minutes." 

Then turning around she took a parchment from the chest of ritual materials, and started working on making a  _dúisighir_ for a _cúplach._ Once done, she took the parchment and placed it on ground, biting her thumb, she added a few drops of her blood to stabilize and create a good copy of herself. Chanting the _dhraíocht,_ she folded the parchment until it resembled a tiny cube, saying the last word of the chant, she placed the cube on the ground and smeared the blood on it.

Immediately, it started growing until a paper version of her stood where she had placed the cube, then slowly it turned into flesh, filling out until, before her stood a exact copy of her. Smiling wryly, she turned to look at Harry," I'll be back before dawn, don't let anyone in."

Then going to the wall that housed the concealed _fánán,_ she Pulled at it to open, and there stood ready the _fánán,_  already showing the destination as she saw it, the image blurred as though viewing it through a dirty glass door. 

_"Be careful._  You know what happened the last time, Joyce. Please, please just come back safe." Harry sounded tired and worried, understandable but nothingshe could do to change it now. So smiling tightly she promised she would.

Stepping into the _fánán,_ she closed and sealed it behind her, then fell into the void that would take her to her destination, making certain that her thoughts were only about the destination and nothing but it. She didn't want to end up in the wrong place like the last time. That had been catastrophic. Closing her eyes, she thought hard.

_Pálás da Cruithen-tuath._

_Pálás da Cruithen-tuath._

_Pálás da Cruithen-tuath._

Opening her eyes found her outside the doors of _Pálás da Cruithen-tuath._ Finally she was here, panting she took her first step, and knocked.    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GLOSSARY:
> 
> High Lords - The lords of the Gilde de Sceaduwe, more like priests but with powers beyond imagination
> 
> Gilde de Sceaduwe -The literal meaning is The Guild of Shadows, but in actuality they are a different race of people, generally called Sceadu, meaning shade, who are born with abilities, are not humans but look like them, their physiology when examined is the same as that of humans, but with greater strength, speed, intelligence etc.
> 
> The Temple of the Origin - It is the Temple where The Ancient One was once said to live amongst her sceadu, giving the place great power, but had been buried under a apocalyptic landslide that buried the Temple along with a few of the High Lords 
> 
> The Ancient One - One of the many names given to the Goddess who is their origin, their source of power, their everything.
> 
> Neas sceadu - young shades
> 
> Banriona Sceadu du Cruithen-tuath - The Sceadu queen of Britain
> 
> Dhraíocht- Spell, or incantation
> 
> Seansaighdiúir - War veteran, or soldier
> 
> Fánán - chute, portal
> 
> Dúisigh - conjure
> 
> Cúplach - twin, double


	4. Curiosity and Abject Misery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finds things about the case that make no sense, so does trying to understand his flatmate … no friend.  
> Whereas Harry deals with a lot of things that make her miserable.

 

The lab at St. Barts was where Sherlock was holed up. The samples that he had swiped under Lestrade's nose from the crime scene fascinating him endlessly. Because what he found should not have happened, not unless he had missed something, something that seemed quite obvious. He texted Joyce.

_Come to Barts. Bring the bullets. - SH_

She didn't reply. That never happened. So he texted her again then again. But still no reply. Pulling his attention away from the samples, he wondered what happened to her.  He texted his homeless network. They replied that she had got into a taxi after leaving the crime scene, and that they had not spotted her after that. Hating the thought, but needing to know where she was. So he texted Mycroft.

_Have you spotted Joyce? - SH_

The chances of Joyce still being with her sister after seven hours was slim, but it didn't hurt to check again, so he texted her again.

_Joyce? - SH_

_Where are you? -SH_

Just then he received a text. Hoping that it was from Joyce, he swiped the screen. It was Mycroft. Ughhh. 

**_She is still at her sister's. - MH_ **

 The computer pinged a result, and he pushed his speculations about Joyce to the back of his mind. The Work was calling, Joyce would have to wait.

The results seemed improbable. That was interesting, very interesting. The blood sample, that he had scraped off the floor, had traces of ozone in them, along with tropane alkaloids, specifically alkaloids from _Atropa belladonna_ and  _Mandragora officinalis_ that are commonly known as deadly nightshade and mandrake. Curious and curiouser. They were both known poisons that compromised the parasympathethic nervous system _._ They disrupted the involuntary activities of the body like breathing, heart rate and sweating. But they were slow acting compared to other faster poisons. So why this?

Only the autopsy reports would tell him conclusively if they had all died from only the bullet wounds or from a combination of poison and bullet wounds. But he was pretty sure that at least two of the victims had died of poisoning, but had been shot to make their death certain. One had likely hallucinated, then killed themself along with one other of the group. Then the last one had likely died of poisoning, because he didn't have any bullet wounds. But depending upon the amounts of the alkaloids found in the bodies would tell if that was true or not.

But he'd also collected swabs off their skin, not their bodily fluids, not blood, not lymph or plasma. So if autopsy ruled out poison inside their bodies, then what use was using these compounds on the skin. They were not potent enough to cause death only through skin contact.

So did they come across the compounds because it was aerosolised? Or were they deliberately doused in the compounds for some reason. Or was atropine's hallucinatory properties sought after, so these people would then act in irrational ways, so as to cover up the acts performed using them as a cover? But the atropine concentration was almost negligible, so it wouldn't have had caused any effects. Was he missing something? Where was Joyce? He needed to think!! Gripping his hair, the pain from puling his hair calmed him a little.

He breathed deep and slow, to calm down further and come back from the brink. Keeping his breathing slow and steady, matching the rhythm he remembered vaguely from somewhere. He rearranged the facts, as he had collected them.

The bodies had been stripped of any identification, their prints were not there in any of the databases. And based on the condition of their hands and feet, they were likely the homeless. So getting proper identification for all of them could be difficult. He'd contact his homeless network, see if they knew anything about these five bodies. And also why had there been resin residues along the bottom of all their feet. Was it natural or synthetic? He would need to check, find out if there were any ways to connect them to the ozone present in the blood. Was the ozone introduced or was it possible that the oxygen was oxidised to ozone in the blood? But would that be possible without incurring damage to the other components of human body? He needed Joyce. Where was she?

Now then, where was Joyce? And how was the ozone stable in the blood samples? It should have been in broken down to oxygen by the natural mechanisms of cells, but it didn't, as something were keeping them stable. But what? The concentration of ozone was not so high that the conversion wouldn't occur. Sure, now the blood was basically dead, but it wasn't dead when in the bodies of those people when they were alive. It made no sense. And again where was Joyce? 

So lost was he in his thoughts that it took him some to realise, that something hitting the back of his head slowly and insistently, why had she had a shower in the middle of the day, why did she smell like smoke and dust, when she'd just gone to the shop? Why? Why did she change her clothes and why was she stiff, like she was in pain? Was she in pain, or was he missing something again? And blood, he'd smelt a small whiff of it as he'd ushered Joyce out of her room. Where had that come from? And the surprise on her face on reaching the crime scene, that had made no sense then but thinking about it now, it was like she knew there would be a crime scene, but on reaching it, why be surprised? Did she expect to go else where? That text from her sister, that seemed odd, somehow mistimed, like it was planned or Joyce had used Harry as an excuse to run from the scene? But why? It made no sense, what could have caused it? Also why had she smelt like gunpowder? She had not taken her gun with her, he knew because he had filched it and had been planning on using it for an experiment, but had discarded it as bit not good.

 

 

Harry was pacing nervously, as she waited for her younger sister to come back. It was almost dawn, she had promised to come back before dawn but now it was almost dawn but Joyce was still not here. Oh god. What was happening there that it was taking so long for her to come back. 

Feeling bile rise up her throat, she swallowed convulsively, to push back the urge to vomit. Pacing kept her nervous energy under tenuous control, so she paced as she had been for the past four hours or so. Her heels ached vaguely, as though she were feeling someone else's pain. That brought a moment of clarity, she had not lost herself like this since the last time Joyce had been gone for the Council. It figured that the same reason would cause to her to have a breakdown. The background emotions that she almost constantly buffered against threatened  to overwhelm her again. So dragging her shuddering  _Saiwala_ close, she dragged its tattered edges close and enclosed herself, to prevent any further bleed through from occurring again. 

The _fánán_ chose to be annoying just when she had almost gotten her  _saiwala_  under control. Someone was trying to break through the wards that Joyce had placed on the  _fánán._  Wrestling herself under control quickly, she placed a few banishment curses along the outer paths of the  _fánán_ 's path that they had managed to breach. She couldn't allow anyone to access the pathway. Joyce would be executed for allowing anyone else to use her personal pathway to the  _Cruithen-tuath._  As it was, most of them wanted her dead or wanted her  _abilities_. She wouldn't allow anyone to get at her sister through such petty tactics. The path glowed as though, sensing interference but that wouldn't happen unless the intruders had already managed to get a foothold into the pathway. She was at this end, so unless they happened to be at the  _Cruithen-tuath._ Suddenly, the tug of war for the control of the cracks to the pathway ceased as though, the intruders had accomplished what they had set out to do. 

Panting, she wiped her forehead to clear away the cold sweat that had formed. She stayed vigilant incase of another onslaught, which wouldn't surprise her. It had been a common tactic during the war.

Bolstering her fading reserves with a quick tug of the energy around her, she waited for another attack or anything, all the while casting around for any foreign presence along the pathway. As she settled in for her self assigned watch, her nerves settled as her battle senses engaged. She would be ready for the next one. Her purpose returned, the _amháin a mhothaíonn,_ settled and waited for her sister.

Her sister would have a safe passage through the pathway, she would make sure of that. To deter further attempts, she formed a few creative curses along the weaker parts of the pathway as she reinforced the other portions of the _fánán._ She was not as powerful as Joyce but she was not weak. Goddess, she hoped Joyce returned soon though. She was not made up of energy indefinitely, even with her borrowing the surrounding energy, it was just a replacement, a temporary one for the energy she was expending, it wouldn't hold for long.

What were the old coots of the _Council_ talking about for so long. She just wanted the dreamless sleep, that Joyce had promised her in return for this enormous favour. Joyce so owed her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GLOSSARY:  
> amháin a mhothaíonn - one who feels ( Empath)
> 
> fánán - portal
> 
> Cruithen-tuath - Britain


	5. Agony of helplessness...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock fed up of waiting for Joyce to return, attempts something stupid but seems to be intercepted by something. Just what was going on?  
> Harry panics, then calms and takes care of her sister, as good elder sisters are wont to do.

 

* * *

 

 

Her sister was late. The sun was rising, its diffused light coming into her flat through wide windows casting its subtle glow over the walls. She strode to the kitchen to get some tea once more, before limply collapsing onto to her sofa forgoing tea, all her energy depleted. But the anxious lurch of her stomach continued, until she felt like throwing up all over. The last time... the last time this occurred her sister had almost died. This time she feared Joyce would really die.

As her mind lurched around, her thoughts in chaos, wondering, reliving, and her Gifts projecting all over the place, it took her moment to notice that the _fánán_  was humming, almost thrumming, so jumping up she hurried to remove the wards she'd placed over it to protect the portal. It turned out she was not a moment too late, for as she undid the wards, her sister stepped forward, slowly materialising with the gates of the Palace behind slowly fading away as the _fánán_ closed around the path, now inactive for anyone. 

Hugging her tight while also holding her upright, Harry let out a tremulous breath to feel that Joyce was physically whole. Releasing her, Harry stepped back holding her shoulders to keep her on her feet, when she noticed Joyce's face. She knew then that death would have been a blessing. Oh Goddess. She hated the helplessness creeping up on her. 

She gently led Joyce to the kitchen by supporting her shoulders. Seating her at the table, Harry went about preparing tea, blessing it ritually, performing the _blodisoian_ , infusing the tea with calm, peace, tranquility, with love and with faith. She wanted to bolster the flagging spirits of her beloved sister, whose Pulse was fluttering between horror and soul deep terror, all buried beneath the stiff lipped mask of a soldier. Joyce's therapist had not been wrong when she diagnosed her with PTSD, she was just wrong about the cause of it. It seemed the council was troubled, and who would they blame but the _trodaire láidre_ , their favourite scape goat, the only female warrior to survive that time.

She knew the day was going to become much worse and it had not even started yet. She needed to help her sister, but she knew she didn’t have what her sister required, so she went about soothing away the surface fears, so that the person who could help wouldn’t notice that something was wrong with her sister, she just wished that Joyce would stop being so stubborn and accept that she needed him. 

From the continuous waves of calm she sent her, finally feeling Joyce relax subtly from her ministrations, she continued doing it despite being tired. She would tell Joyce about the intruders, but only after she was well rested. So between easing Joyce’s mind, slipping in the suggestion of sleep was terribly easy in her current state. Sleep would help cement the suggestions of calm that she’d placed in her mind. Hoping that all this would hold until she could get the help needed. Settling Joyce in bed, she took her phone to fire off a text to him.

_Staying at Harry’s. Don’t wait up. She’s not doing good again._

With this done, she slipped beside Joyce into the bed. She wanted to make sure that the suggestions she had laid down would hold. Joyce was very strong, even when unconscious she would fight off the suggestions, her presence would allay that instinct, keep it under control because Joyce trusted her. Her blood sister. So she would keep her sister calm until she would get the help she needed, till she could reach her chosen anchor. So pulling blankets up to their chins, and tucking them over Joyce, she laid down to keep vigil.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock paced, back and forth, back and forth along the worn carpet in front of the empty fireplace. His fingers moved through various exercises to keep them nimble. But he didn’t notice. It felt like his skin was crawling, itching form within, burning up like he had fever. He felt like he was going through withdrawal again, he was going crazy. He clenched his fists in his hair, pulling, tugging continuously, pain the helping him settle a little in his skin. Focusing seemed very hard. He felt out of focus, like he was just a bystander in his own body. He didn’t notice that he was wearying a groove in the carpet with his pacing. 

His mind raced, many thoughts just zooming along, with him unable to concentrate on any one. They were all going so fast, he couldn’t catch up with them. He was being driven crazy, if only they would wait for him to catch up, he would find what he needed to know. But they seemed out of control, careening and bouncing against the walls of his palace, messing what little order there had been. He felt the palace go out of focus, blurring in his mind’s eye. This was worse than when he had lost control of himself, during his time of bingeing on drugs just after college. He struggled to focus on his thoughts but it was like he was drugged, but that couldn’t be. He was sober.. wasn’t he? He needed Joyce, she would tell him… She would tell him what was wrong with him, what was………

Something pulled him out of his fugue. He could feel himself moving towards wakefulness, but his eyes stayed stubbornly shut. They wouldn’t budge open. His mind eyes snapped open, and right before him he could feel the blurriness dissolve into focus, his palace came back into view. It looked the same. the same arched columns, the same marble walls with their kaleidoscopic patterns. But something felt wrong. Like everything was there but they no longer occupied the same space. Like someone had riffled through his drawers and messed up his things. 

His thoughts were stationary now, each of them occupying a certain position, but it all felt wrong. He couldn’t pinpoint what but it seemed wrong. What was it? Why couldn’t he figure it out? Just what was wrong!!!!!

A smell drifted into his nose, a familiar one, a comforting smell, it caught him and started to pull him out of his mind. When opened his eyes, the dim lighting and the ceiling greeted his vision. As his hazy vision focused, Joyce’s face appeared above him. She looked relieved on seeing him awake. He felt her hands stop stroking his hair, and protested that immediately, grunting and pushing his head into her hand, demanding to be petted. When his groggy mind caught with him he stopped, slowly pushing himself upright. Finally he noticed that he was on the floor of the living room, between the sofa and the fireplace. His head was throbbing, like something had hit it. Probably the floor. Noises started drifting into his ears, that is when he realised that he had been hearing no noises, he had been deaf, and hadn’t even realised it. Someone was speaking, but it sounded illegible. Finally he started understanding sounds as his ears cleared with a pop.

“….lock, Sherlock can you hear me? Sherlock?” 

“Joyce?”, his voice sounded feeble. Feeling hands tilt his head up, he saw her face looking at him. her hands pried his eyelids apart to look at his eyes. Torchlight shone in his eyes, but he didn’t feel any pain. He looked at light as it moved around and when it finally shut off, he looked up at Joyce. Joyce who looked concerned, with a frown growing between her brows and her mouth a grim line. He didn’t like it when Joyce looked like that, so he tried to tell her that he was alright, but no sound came out of his mouth. He tried again, but no sound issued again. That was odd, if he opened his mouth to make sound, sounds should come, so why didn’t they. 

Focusing again told him Joyce was speaking, but he didn’t understand her, so he tried to shake his head. She didn’t seem to notice that he was shaking his head. So tried to touch her hand on his face, but his hand didn’t move. That was odd, he tried to lift his hand again, it didn’t move. It felt like something was burying him slowly, he felt his breaths become shallow. He could hear Joyce yelling something but it became harder and harder to breathe. Everything started becoming blurry, until he saw no more. He only remembered that he didm’t like it when Joyce worried, so she shouldn’t do that… or should she do……..

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone was wondering who I pictured as Joyce, the look up Amy Adams. She's almost exactly how I pictured her in my head.


End file.
